Is that the phone already? I’m afraid to answer it. Other than Mama, nobody calls me this early, because I sent out a directive years ago that this is the only quiet time I have to myself to get organized and jump-start all the things I have to do in a day. It could be Miss Ordelle, the lady who irons for me once a week. If it’s her, then it means she’s got another toothache, a cold, or pains in her chest. She never calls this early. Somebody’s been calling here all week and hanging up. I assume it’s one of those ditzy girls trying to catch Dingus before he leaves for school, hoping she’ll get a chance to make some kind of pathetic offering to get her name on his list, but that won’t be happening anytime soon, because he is totally enthralled with Jade: smart, tall, as black as she is pretty, goes to Sunday school and church every Sunday because her daddy’s a preacher and sings in the junior choir, power forward for her high school’s team, and is not giving it up to my son as far as I can tell. For a while there, I was worried because he was strung out on this trashy little white girl—Meagan Somebody—who was as dumb as they come. But I kept my mouth shut, hoping she would run her course and he’d get her out of his system, which he did, after finding out she was also sleeping with one of his homies. Then I told myself to take a chill pill, let my son choose whomever he likes, to stop being such a racist and show the girl at least an ounce of respect. Which I did. By not saying more than a friendly hello and a relieved goodbye whenever he brought her over here. I offered her some chips and dip once, and that took all the strength I had. She flunked seventh grade, for God’s sake. My son has always been on the honor roll. What Mama and Dingus fail to understand is that I don’t have a problem with white people. I like a whole lot of white people. And I don’t have a problem with my son liking a white girl. That’s not it either. I don’t care what color she is. But dumb is one color I don’t like and have a hard time tolerating. It’s a slow mind that tests my patience.

I pick up the phone, but apparently Dingus has already gotten it from the kitchen.

“Hello,” he says. My Lord, the boy’s voice seems to get deeper by the day.

“I didn’t get my period,” Meagan says.

Oh, no, she didn’t just say that. I hold my breath back.

“You said you were taking the pill,” Dingus says.

Yeah, you little bitch. I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it. Ever since Dingus got his letterman jacket and his picture in the local newspaper and the college scouts started watching him, not to mention older girls swarming around him after the games like flies, this heifer’s been on a mission to put a stop to his extracurricular activities. But this is a very weak trick to pull. And so old: like 1950s old. But not to worry. There’s no fucking way my son is going to forfeit his future. Didn’t your mama teach you anything? I should cut a few inches off Dingus’s little immature dick, since he has obviously not been using the condoms I put in his drawer and backpack.